


See Me In Hindsight

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re kind of a mess,” He says mildly.</p><p>“Thanks captain obvious.” The corners of his mouth twitch a little, like he’s holding back a smile. She is not remotely pleased by that. Not at all.</p><p>Or, the one where they're project partners and maybe, perhaps, friends. (And maybe, perhaps, more.)</p><p>
  <b> Winner of the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards Best High School/College AU Fiction! </b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Machiavellianism

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](http://okteivia-blakes.tumblr.com/) to cry about this ship

She learns about him before she even meets him.

The first person who tells her about him is Wells.

“There’s this guy in my dorm with like a massive chip on his shoulder,” He says nonchalantly, as if that’s not going to pique Clarke’s interest.

“Meaning?” She asks, as she sips on her tea.

“Meaning he’s constantly getting into fights and shit. He looks like he’s been through a wood chipper.”

The second person is also coincidentally, her first friend at college.

“There’s always one psycho in every dorm,” Monty tells her, jabbing at the buttons of his controller with practiced ease, “In our dorm, it’s this kid called Bellamy Blake. He punched this kid, Atom, I think? For like, no reason whatsoever. Just because he felt like it.”

“That’s hardcore,” Clarke manages.

Monty gives her a look. “That’s just psychotic, Clarke.” (Princess Peach crashes into a wall and plunges to her watery death with a high pitched squeal. Clarke throws down her controller and admits total defeat.)

She hears about him last from Raven.

“Shit,” She says, “How can someone so problematic be so attractive?”

Clarke looks up from her sketchbook, catches a glimpse of broad shoulders, mussed, dark hair. Raven jabs her hard, cricks her neck towards the left. He’s seated at the table next to theirs. She ducks her head back down, pretends to be absorbed in her drawing before peeking through her lashes.

Objectively, he’s attractive, she thinks grudgingly. Obscenely attractive. Clarke is a little distracted by the sharp angle of his jaw, the freckles spread across his nose. He’s all tanned skin and purplish bruises and that shouldn’t be attractive, but it kind of is. She watches the muscles of his back ripple through his tight blue shirt and her mouth feels a little dry.

“Holy shit, is he reading? I didn’t know he could read.”

“Raven, shut up.” She hisses. His jaw clenches, long fingers tightening on the spine of the book. Clarke holds her breath.

Then it’s over. He gets up abruptly, book shoved messily into his bag, and strides off. Raven exhales, thumping her head against the table. “Fuck. I thought he was going to beat the shit out of me.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says absentmindedly, her fingers flying over the page as she sketches his receding profile, “Definitely.”

__________________________________

College is different. A good kind of different, Clarke tells herself sternly, but she misses home. She misses her old friends and her parents and even the shitty diner where she used to do her homework. She misses how easy everything used to be.

Nothing is certain here. She makes friends at a glacial pace and her classes are challenging. She spends a lot of time holed up in her dorm room eating greasy pizza and highlighting. (God, so much highlighting.)

By her second week, her mom is worried about her lack of a social life so Clarke decides to shake things up. Instead of crying over her essay in her room, she decides to cry over it in the library. With coffee.

She’s blearily editing her essay, glasses askew, hair greasy all the way down to the tips, when she realises who she has been sitting next to.

It’s 10 on a Friday night so there’s hardly anyone else in here, but well, Bellamy Blake. He’s pointedly not looking at her and she’s sort of, well, staring.

The bruises on his face have faded a little but she can still make out the outline of it. His shoulders are tense, but he doesn’t radiate the same hostility she felt the first time she saw him. He wears glasses too, she thinks to herself stupidly.

“What are you staring at?” He snarls, and she turns her face back to her laptop, a flush working up her cheeks. Fuck.

“Nothing,” She says curtly and she thanks all the universes and the deities that her voice doesn’t tremble.

He doesn’t say anything back, but she hears him sigh after. Weary and worn out and tired. “Sorry.” He mutters quietly, “Having a bad week.”

Clarke doesn’t trust herself to speak so she just nods at her screen. They lapse back into silence.

They don’t speak for the next few hours and it’s weird how at ease she feels with the supposed school psycho. He gets up to pee once and when he comes back, shoots her a weird look, as if he’s scandalized she didn’t steal his stuff or vandalize his notes.

She’s about ¾ done with her essay when she realises her laptop is dying. “Fuck,” She swears under her breath, scrambling for her charger in her bag. There isn’t a power outlet by her cubicle but there’s one by Bellamy’s and she’ll be damned if she loses five hours of work just because her laptop dies.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He yelps when she swoops down to his ankle.

“Charging my damn laptop,” She snaps, struggling with the tangled wire, “Jesus!” (She’s never rolling up her fucking charger again. Or she’s buying one of those clips. This is downright ridiculous.) She gives it a hard shake, hoping the wires will miraculously slip out of its knots. They stay stubbornly coiled into a heap. She tugs on one end, hard, and it snaps onto her laptop. Thank god. She’ll sort out the mess later.

“You’re kind of a mess,” He says mildly.

“Thanks captain obvious.” The corners of his mouth twitch a little, like he’s holding back a smile. She is not remotely pleased by that. Not at all.

Clarke falls asleep sometime around midnight and when she wakes, hair in her mouth, she realises that he untangled the wire for her. And also drank her coffee. Bastard.

He’s left a post-it note for her, bright orange. _Get some sleep, princess. P.S you misspelled ‘machiavellianism’_

 He’s drawn a little crown by princess. It’s pitiful, actually. She thought it was a porcupine at first. She stares at the note, corrects the word in her essay, and sweeps it into her sketchbook.

__________________________________

By some fucked up twist of fate, he ends up in her sociology class. This time sporting a fresh bruise by his left eye, raised and a little swollen. He sits towards the back and the rest of the class gives him a wide berth- not that she blames them- with his leather jacket and the bruises and the pen dangling by his teeth; he was beyond intimidating.

She forces herself to focus on the coursework structure for the next hour, taking down notes and occasionally doodling funny sketches of her friends in the margins. She’s drawing Monty with an inflated head when she hears it.

“This subject is project-based so I will need you to get into pairs and work on the assignment. Once you’ve gotten your partner, you can’t switch for the rest of the semester.” Professor Indra barks. “You have five minutes.”

Clarke’s debating between the friendly looking girl two rows down or the dark-haired guy five seats down when he slides in next to her, smooth and sure.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She says.

“Oh come on. I did you a favour last week.”

“You drank my coffee,” Clarke mutters, “I needed that.”

He shrugs, “I’ll buy you another.”

And that’s the story of how Bellamy Blake becomes her sociology partner, and also, incidentally, the story of how she gets his number, scribbled in black ink against her palm.

(She keys it into her phone carefully after he leaves, saves the contact under ‘dipshit who drank my coffee.’ Adds in two angry emojis for effect. For some strange, obscure reason, she hopes he sees it one day.)

__________________________________

He disappears halfway through class the next week. She chalks it up to typical irresponsibleness or just one of his moods and starts drawing up a flow chart for the assignment.

She’s midway through formulating a very comprehensive chart when her phone starts blaring the old timey telephone noise. She fumbles for it, ducks under the table, and hisses, “This better be good.”

“Hey there, princess.” He says and she feels a swell or irritation at the stupid nickname.

“Where the hell are you? And why are you calling me in the middle of the class you’re supposed to be in?”

“So I kind of need to cash in on that favour now.”

She’s exasperated but okay, also curious, so instead of hanging up on him, she asks, “What?”

“I need you to bring my bag down to the parking lot by the building.”

“And you can’t come get it yourself because…?”

“I’m bleeding a little too heavily to be walking anywhere, Clarke.”

 _Shit fuck._ “Do you, erm. Do you need me to call you an ambulance?”

“Not really,” He says, all to casual for someone who’s apparently bleeding out in a parking lot, “I just really need my things.”

“Okay,” She manages, “I’ll be there in 5.”

She gives Professor Indra some lame excuse about cramps, packs up his bag and stumbles out of the classroom. It takes her a little while to orientate herself but she eventually figures out the direction to the carpark and starts walking.

Clarke sees the blood trail first before spotting him.

He’s holding a wad of tissues up to his nose, blood slick against his fingers. He smiles crookedly at her when she crouches down next to him, reaching for his bag against her shoulder.

“So what happened here?”

Bellamy snorts, voice a little muffled with the tissues pressed up against his nose, “Got into a fight. Nothing new.”

“Don’t keep your head raised.”

“What?”

“You’re swallowing the blood back” She says, reaching to tilt his chin down, “Keep your head at this angle instead.”

“What are you, a doctor?”

“I actually considered studying pre-med,” She says dryly, staring at the stream of blood by his sneakers. There’s a lot of it but from where she’s standing his nose doesn’t look broken.

“Thanks. You can leave, you know.”

“No, no,” She says sarcastically, sinking to the ground, “I really just want to watch you bleed out. It’s pretty satisfying.”

He groans and scuffs the side of her shoes with his sneaker. It’s a surprisingly companionable gesture.

“So who’s the person treating you like a punching bag?”

“Who says I’m not picking the fights?”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll pick a fight for no reason,” She says irritably.

“I could just be _that_ fucked up.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

He’s quiet for a while and just when Clarke considers leaving, he says, “My sister.”

She laughs, incredulous, “Your sister is the one beating the shit out of you?”

He laughs at that, and she catches a glimpse of perfectly aligned teeth, stained red, “No. Her ex-boyfriend actually. He’s been trying to bother her but I’ve been, ah, dissuading him.”

“That’s, erm.” She scrambles for a word. Impressive? Psychotic? Protective. Kind of sweet, actually. She settles for, “Crazy.”

“I know,” Bellamy says, wincing as he gets to his feet, “But she’s my sister. My responsibility.”

“This feels a little beyond the usual big brother duties.”

He throws the wad of tissues into his bin, sniffing. His face is bloody, knuckles bruised and she’s suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of fondness for him, someone she barely knows.

It’s strange but Bellamy Blake makes her heart ache in a strange way she can’t entirely comprehend. She doesn’t feel sorry for him, no, not like that, but she feels for him.

She wishes she could explain it, could put it into words, tell him that she understands, tell him that she respects him, even, but the words feel heavy and wrong on her tongue. She pats his shoulder awkwardly instead.

“I hope this all works out,” She manages, right before they part ways.

Bellamy smiles at her, a real one- not a smirk, not a twitch of his lips- “I’ll see you next week, princess.”

 


	2. Megalomaniac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the encouragement and comments! You guys are the sweetest. Chapter 2 is up and hopefully chapter 3 will be soon!

Clarke sees her on a rainy Thursday afternoon and just like that, she’s jealous.

 _Force of nature_ , she thinks to herself, watching the girl cross the quad. Head held high, eyes blazing, fists by her side, all sharp lines and angles, structured and clean. (Her fingers itch for a pencil, her sketchbook. She looks back down at her gender studies textbook instead.)

She briefly allows herself to wonder what it would be like to be so self-possessed, to be the kind of girl who would inspire envy just by her stride, when she hears a shout.

The girl is shouting, waving her arms around frantically at a boy. He looks vaguely familiar to her, or maybe it’s just one of those faces. He looks afraid. He should be afraid, Clarke thinks absentmindedly, watching as the girl jabs her finger into his chest, forcing him back a few steps. This girl didn’t seem like she would back down from anything.

Then she swings out, fist slamming into the side of the boy’s face, and Clarke swears she can hear the clean snap of bone. “ _Bitch_!” The boy spits and it’s chaos- they’re swallowed by the crowd, people gasping and yelling encouragement- and Clarke shoves her textbook back into her bag, her heart pounding.

She should leave. Get out of here before things get really ugly and the dean arrives. But she finds herself pushing through the crowd instead, trying to catch a glimpse of the spectacle.

Then as quickly as it starts, it ends. The boy is on the floor, jacket sleeve pressed up against his nose. The girl’s voice is low, guttural, and Clarke can’t make out what she’s saying but it’s an obvious threat. He stumbles away, still swearing, and the crowd disperses, leaving her standing there, staring at this stranger, rain pounding down her back.

She’s not hurt, but her knuckles are bruised, and instinctively, she thinks _Bellamy_.

“Are you just going to stare or you do you want to help me out here?” The girl asks brusquely, wincing as she rotates her wrist slowly.

“Let’s get out of this rain.” Clarke manages.

Against all better judgement, Clarke brings the potentially violent stranger to her dorm room.

“Sweet,” The girl says when she flicks on the lights, “You got a single. I live on the other side of campus and my roommate is a sex deprived megalomaniac.”

“That sounds like a pretty good SAT word,” Clarke says absentmindedly as she strips off her soaked hoodie.

“Yeah well,” The girl says, running her fingers over the post-its Clarke has on her walls, “I’m majoring in english.”

Clarke doesn’t have much in her mini-fridge but there’s a packet of frozen peas so she grabs that and hands it over. The girl presses it against her knuckles, hissing slightly at the temperature, but eventually relaxes enough to lay back on Clarke’s pillows.

“Octavia,” The girl says, shifting slightly, “Nice to meet you.

 _Hurricane Octavia._ God. Clarke wants to draw her so badly.

“Clarke,” She says, settling into her chair, “The feeling’s mutual.”

“So, Clarke. Why do you have a bag of peas in your mini-fridge?”

“Gag gift from my friend Wells. I was complaining about freshman 15. He thought it would be funny, you know, trying to get me to eat healthy.”

“Wells Jaha,” She says, arching her brow. “As in, the dean’s son?”

“The one and only.”

“You have friends in high places,” She says, all casual, and Clarke can tell that it bothers her a little.

“He’s a cool guy,” She offers lamely, “You can always hang out with us if you like.”

Octavia grins, all teeth, “Sure I have enough cred to hang out with you guys?”

Octavia seems like someone who would appreciate honesty, so Clarke says, “You have plenty of street cred. You punched a guy in the quad. That’s hardcore. And also badass.”

She’s right. Octavia gives a little snort of laughter and relaxes. “He deserved it.” She mutters, and as curious as Clarke is, she’s not going to push. Octavia feels like someone she could be friends with and she’s not going to fuck that up on the first day.

“So what would be your usual Thursday night activity if I hadn’t interrupted with my theatrics?” Octavia asks.

“Honestly?”

Octavia ends up spending the night after she falls asleep sometime around episode eight of Daredevil. Clarke summons up the energy to change to her flannel pyjama bottoms and shove the pizza boxes aside before she falls asleep to the sound of the rain hitting the roof.

__________________________________

In the days that pass, Clarke draws her own conclusions about the enigma that is Octavia.

Firstly, she’s a great friend, always up for a good time and providing support 24/7 in terms of bringing ice cream for late night study sessions and movie nights. But she is also a sporadic and random texter, emojis and exclamation points and messages coming by a mile a minute and suddenly dropping off to the other side of the planet the other.

“I’m bad at this whole texting thing,” She says bluntly after Clarke asks her, point-blank, on why she hadn’t replied her text from three days ago. “Don’t have the attention span for it.”

She’s met Raven and while they don’t hate each other, they are wary around one another. Cagy and constantly sizing each other up, as if they would burst into a fight at any point. Clarke chalks it up to the fact that they’re both explosive individuals with a plethora of trust issues.

Octavia gets along reasonably well with the rest of her friends though, Wells included, so it’s not exactly hardship. They’re in Monty’s room having a Mario Kart party when she hears from Bellamy.

 _ **dipshit who drank my coffee**_ : princess we need to work on that sociology paper.

She deliberates ignoring the text in favour of hanging out with her friends, but she knows he’s right. The first paper is due in a week and while she hasn’t been avoiding him, she hasn’t been seeking him out either after the incident.

The truth is Clarke doesn’t know where she stands with Bellamy and well. She doesn’t do well with anything uncertain.

_When do you wanna meet?_

She shoves her phone back into the pocket of her jeans, tries to focus her attention back on the game, but she’s restless now, worried. It’s weird because honestly, why does she care what Bellamy Blake says? Why is she even concerned about seeing him?

 _You haven’t seen him since he bled out in a fucking parking lot,_ the voice in the back of her head sounds suspiciously like Wells. She pushes the thought aside.

“Clarke are you listening?” Raven says, cuffing the back of her head gently.

“Yes,” She says petulantly as her phone vibrates against her hip. She drops the controller, scrambling for her phone.

 _ **dipshit who drank my coffee**_ : Is today good? 4pm at grounders?

That’s in an hour. She fires back a quick sure then goes back to not watching her phone.

“Eat monkey balls, Reyes!” Wells shouts suddenly, pulling Clarke out of her thoughts, and Monty’s giggling, breathy laughs against her neck, Raven cackling, feet pressed up against Clarke’s spine, Octavia’s thigh lined up against hers. She feels a sudden warmth for this makeshift family, this ragtag group of friends she has, before she picks up her controller and gets her head back in the game.

__________________________________

She arrives at 3.58, early but not too eager, but not late either. Grounders is packed- college students do live on caffeine after all- but she doesn’t see Bellamy’s dark curls anywhere. She’s deliberating between a booth and a corner table when she feels a tap on her shoulder.

“Hey,” He says, towel draped over his shoulder, “I’m getting off in a few minutes or so. You want to grab a seat at the booth first?”

Bellamy Blake wearing a green striped apron, balancing a tray of coffees. She never thought she would ever see this. (Nobody looks good in a striped apron, her brain supplies unhelpfully, but damn. He was pulling it off.)

Clarke slides into the booth and busies herself with reading the required chapter of her textbook. It’s surprisingly easy to focus despite the decibel of the noise and the smell of rain that comes in every time someone comes in is surprisingly peaceful.

She’s highlighting some points that would translate well in their essay when he slides in across her, muffin in hand.

“So I have a rough draft of what I think should be included in the essay,” He says, handing her a stack of papers, “But I was thinking that we should do a rough outline now and maybe start writing tomorrow?”

“Sounds good,” Clarke says once she’s recovered from the shock that is Bellamy’s atrocious handwriting. It’s loopy and hard to decipher, a little angry looking. She sighs and resigns herself to making out what she can.

She’s debating if he means _nice_ or _not_ when he pushes the muffin towards her.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you,” He says, a little embarrassed, and god, she’ll be lying if it wasn’t a little endearing, “In case you were hungry or something.”

“Thanks.” She says, sincere, and he ducks his gaze back to the table, clearing his throat loudly. Clarke hides her smile behind her hand.

“Is it walnut?”

“Banana walnut,” He mutters, “Just give it to me if you don’t like it. I eat anything.”

“No!” She yelps, “I like bananas. Bananas are nutritious.”

He stares at her a tad too long, and she feels her cheeks heat up at the absurdity of the statement. Bananas are indeed nutritious. Most humans in fact, know of this, she thinks to herself. _Stupid._

But Bellamy just smiles instead, “These are my sister’s favourite.” He says, all fond and it’s nice, she thinks, to hear him say something with so much love in his voice. So much affection. The words sounded safe in his mouth, but also, rare. Bellamy’s words were mostly cutting, or sarcastic or laced with some innuendo, his intention always to bait or aggravate. Clarke liked this side of him. She liked the Bellamy who talked about his sister and made coffee in a striped green apron.

“You seem to be healing up nicely.”

He shrugs, clearly bored at the turn in the conversation, “Is alright, I suppose. Do you want me to tell you what I’ve written instead? I know my handwriting is crap.”

“Yeah, okay.” She says, relieved, and the next hour is spent with her just listening. Bellamy talks with his hands, she realises after a while, and she’s constantly surprised by how much he knows about the subject. He always seems distracted in class, chewing on his watch strap or fiddling with his pen. All this feels new to her.

They finish up the outline and arrange to meet up the very next day. It’s a little awkward heading out together, almost date-like, and god, what if he volunteers to walk her back to her dorm? It seems like the kind of thing Bellamy would do, albeit with some grumbling. The thought of walking back with him in near darkness sends Clarke into a tailspin.

So she regales him with stupid tales about having to meet Raven and Wells on the other side of campus, amping up the urgency in her voice before sprinting off to the quad. She sits for fifteen minutes, tapping a beat on her knee with her pen, before taking the long way back.

__________________________________

They fall into routine easily.

Whoever gets there first buys a snack for the other, and almost every time, information is exchanged, sometimes shyly. Sometimes spat out, words tumbling off tongues, hard and fast. Sometimes in broken fragments that Clarke figures out eventually.

It started with _my mother’s dead_. It was a cheese bagel that day. She got him a chocolate danish the next day. _My dad was murdered by a drunk driver._

 _I haven’t seen my sister in weeks. She says she wants space._ An apple pie, warm and flaky and crumbly. Clarke worries the entire of the next day, deliberating on what she should get him before she decides on a croissant.

 _Sometimes I think I hate my mother._ She tells him, and he just nods, tearing the buttery croissant apart with his fingers, before they go back to editing their essay.

They’re sitting across each other in companionable silence, his foot against hers on a Friday evening when Octavia slides into the booth.

“Clarke?” She says slowly, “Bellamy? You guys know each other?”

“O,” Bellamy says, delighted, and oh, god. She hears it in the cadence of his voice- this, this is the mysterious sister- and she shouldn’t be so surprised, really. The resemblance, though faint, is there and it figures she would be taken in by the Blakes.

“Hey, big brother,” She says, pinching a piece of waffle his plate, “Not sure if you realised, but I took care of the Atom problem. Myself.” She stresses, then frowns, taking him in, “You should have told me what was going on sooner. I can’t believe he beat you up.”

“It’s not a big deal,” He mutters, “What did you do to him, O?”

“I settled it, okay? Stop worrying.” Then she grins, sure and bright, “Are you guys _friends?_ ”

“No!” Clarke yells, “God no.” An awkward laugh. Bellamy’s face is carefully blank. “We’re sociology partners,” She stutters, “That’s all.”

Octavia holds her stare, a second longer than usual.

“Okay,” She says cheerfully, getting to her feet, “This has been fun but I have to go. See you guys.”

“See you later,” Clarke bleats. Bellamy gives a lazy wave.

They last five minutes in the now awkward silence before Bellamy breaks.

“So listen, I’ve got to go.”

“It’s only 5.30,” She says clumsily, “Do you have somewhere to be?”

He gives her a crooked smile, eyes dark, “Sure, Clarke. I have somewhere to be. That’s all.”

__________________________________

She mopes about this for two whole days, replaying the moment over and over before she resigns herself to admitting that yes, she fucked up. Yes, she wants to be Bellamy Blake’s friend. It’s important that they’re friends.

So she finds him on Facebook and sends him a request, her version of a weird apology without her actually saying the words or calling him all teary and desperate, begging him to forgive her.

When she gets back to her dorm that night, waterlogged and grumpy, she finds a message from him.

_Guess we’re friends now, princess._

She sleeps easy that night.


	3. All 649 Of Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so hard to write, good god. It's a little slow but don't worry, the pace will pick up in the later chapters. Thanks for all the support guys!

Clarke should have known that her day was destined to become a suck fest the minute she heard the jaws theme song.

Instead, she had been, at that point, cautiously optimistic.

“I think it’ll be okay this time,” She had confided in Raven, rifling through her closet full of t-shirts and ripped jeans, “She didn’t sound quite so… condescending this time, you know? Maybe she just wants to talk.”

“Sure, babe.” Raven had said before helping her with her earrings.

Two hours later, and here she was, having the most awkward dinner with her mother ever. Clarke cursed herself for picking up the phone in the first place. Apparently the ringtone she had set wasn’t a good enough reminder that Abigail Griffin made Clarke want to shove her head into a bowl of acid.

“So,” Her mother says, smiling brightly, “How are you liking your classes?”

“They’re good,” Clarke says carefully, deliberating if her admittance to liking them would set off a landmine, “I’m really enjoying them.”

“That’s nice.” Her mother says pointedly, stabbing her fork into her carrot with unnecessary vigour. Clarke can practically feel her heart sinking down to her impractical shoes. She should have known that there was something.

“Mom, if you wanted to ask me-”

“What makes you think I have something to ask you? Unless-”

“Just. Spit. It. Out. I’m done with this,” She kneads her eyelids frustratedly, only realising, too late, that she put on mascara before leaving, “Ritual. This thing you do, when you pretend to care about my well-being but really, all you want to do is yell at me about my life choices.”

She doesn’t deny it, so Clarke gives her a point for honesty. Then she reaches a trembling hand into her bag, pulling out a sheaf of letters, and whatever small feeling of goodwill she has for her mother evaporates.

“You went through my things?” She hisses.

“Harvard? Yale? Columbia?” Her mother shrieks, “And you decided to go to community college instead? To major in art history?” She punctuates her statement with a slam of her water glass, the table shuddering under her force.

“Exactly,” She spits, and god, she told herself that she would stay calm, that she wouldn’t let her mother get a rise out of her- but she’s already trembling with the effort of staying, of not running away to scream obscenities into the sky- “Because I wanted to. I didn’t want to do medicine. You know it’s not for me.”

“You’re throwing away your future for a hobby, for a whim, something you’ll lose touch with five, ten years later-”

 _Don’t you dare cry,_ she tells herself fiercely, _don’t fucking-_

 

“It’s time to get serious about things, Clarke, you can’t just fritter your life away with your chalk and your pastels-”

“Don’t fucking insult me!” Clarke shrieks, the words tearing out of her lips with enough force to launch herself out of her chair.

Everyone is staring. Clarke can’t read the expression on her mother’s face. They all blur together, a sea of faces and hushed whispering. She’s going blind, she thinks at first, maybe she popped a blood vessel in her eye. Then she realises it’s because she’s crying. Just fucking standing in a restaurant, crying.

“Clarke,” Her mother latches onto her wrist, the movement meant to be soothing, but she wrenches her hand away, backing up a few steps.

“I’ve got to go.” She mumbles, wiping her nose surreptitiously with the back of her hand before she makes a run for it.

__________________________________

It’s her strength of her willpower, really, that she manages to walk back to campus with Raven’s ridiculously high heels. She had tripped once, tearing Octavia’s skirt, in which she reacted by sobbing even harder, but she’s okay now. Mostly.

The quad’s empty so she doesn’t feel weird about settling down and taking off her shoes. She left her purse- with her phone and her wallet- in the restaurant. Her mother, she thinks numbly, would probably leave it there.

She doesn’t even feel sorry for herself anymore, but she feels sorry for her friends, for having ruined their things. Raven’s heels are caked with mud and grass, hopefully salvageable, but as she fingers the hem of Octavia’s skirt, she knows it’s a lost cause. This was Octavia’s favourite formal skirt, she thinks to herself, and she’s fucking crying all over again.

“Clarke?”

She startles at the noise, nearly falling off her perch, but she regains her balance quickly. Her eyes are swollen and puffy and it’s dark but she’ll probably recognize him anywhere.

“Hi,” She croaks, wiping away the tears with the edge of her thumb, “Did you have a nice night?”

“Not really,” Bellamy stutters, tightening his grip on the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, “The new barista spilled a pumpkin spice latte on me. So.” He gestures to the wet patch on his white dress shirt. Clarke forces out a laugh, the sound brittle to her own ears.

They lapse back into silence, Bellamy just looking at her, and she can’t tell what he’s thinking. She doesn’t know what to make of this, how to turn this into a interaction they had before, like in class or in Grounders, when everything felt easy, natural. The entire two minutes of this encounter leaves her feeling more raw and exposed than talking to him about her life over doughnuts.

This is different, she realises, because this isn’t something she wants Bellamy to know. This side to her, the one that crumbles underneath her mother’s criticisms, the one that feels small and weak and insipid. It would be pretty easy, she thinks dully, for him to lose all respect for her based on this encounter. She’s not feeling much respect for herself at the moment either.

“Did someone try to hurt you?” He says finally, voice pinched and tight.

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” She says quickly, before he goes tearing off to punch something, “It’s just my mother. Stupid stuff.”

He inches closer, but keeps a respectable amount of distance between them. “You think you hate her. Because she micromanages every part of your life. You loathe her because she doesn’t know who you are, or if she does, chooses to ignore it in favour of what she wants.”

She lifts her head to stare, says the first thing that comes to mind, “You remembered.”

He flushes, “Yeah. Of course. I remember what you tell me, Clarke.”

“Then I guess I won’t have to rehash what happened. My mom happened. The end.”

He snorts and she shivers, the cold wind slicing into her bare arms. She had a cardigan balled up in her purse, she remembers belatedly. It was her favourite. She mourns the loss of it.

“Are you cold?” Bellamy says suddenly, “Here.” He unzips his bag, produces a hoodie, cramped into the small crevices of his bag. “Shit,” He swears when a stick of gum tumbles out along with some pens, and she waits patiently as he shoves it all back in.

“It’s probably going to swamp you but it’ll keep you warm.” He says, draping the jacket over her shoulders. His fingers are unbearably hot against her bare shoulder, his face remarkably close. She counts six freckles on the bridge of his nose alone, takes in the scar above his lip, has a stupid, insufferable thought. _Kiss me._

 

In her mind, there are only three types of Bellamy she has encountered: Bellamy to the masses, stoic and sarcastic, vicious and rude. Bellamy the big brother, overprotective and caring and sweet. Bellamy, her friend, good listener. Loyal. She mentally adds a fourth Bellamy to the list: Bellamy, stupidly attractive human being whom she wants to kiss.

“Clarke?”

“What?”

“I asked if maybe you wanted a cigarette,” He says teasingly, “I heard it can be relaxing.”

“You smoke?”

He shrugs, “Bad habit that I have under control. Haven’t touched one in a while and the craving only comes knocking when I’m highly stressed.”

“Who would have thought,” Clarke muses, pulling the jacket closer over her frame, “Big brother Bellamy Blake smoking a cigarette.”

“Hey, I quit.”

“What would Octavia say?”

Bellamy gives a bark of laughter, “She used to flush my cigarettes down the toilet.”

“Good for her.”

It’s quiet again, but less tense than before. She doesn’t feel the urge to run away and hide under her covers anymore. She’s come to terms that Bellamy may see her differently now. Takes it as a good sign that he hasn’t run away screaming yet.

Clarke clears her throat, makes up her mind in that split second, “So no on that cigarette front, but how do you feel about some alcohol?”

__________________________________

She should have suggested a bar. Or maybe even a diner.

Because it’s 2am and Clarke Griffin is in Bellamy Blake’s room swigging wine. It’s her second bottle and things are a little hazy but she’s definitely not full on drunk yet. Not yet, at least.

“We should do something,” She says, passing off the bottle to him.

“I like this. Drinking in contemplative silence and all.”

Clarke groans, flops onto the ground and stares at his ceiling. The light hurts her eyes. “Turn them off,” She grumbles and he laughs.

“Okay drunky, how about a movie then? I have some documentaries on my laptop.”

“I need a fuck lot more alcohol if we’re going to be watching a documentary.”

He rolls his eyes but he does cross the room to check on his stash, “I have two bottles of vodka in there but that’s all that’s left.”

“Good enough for me,” She says. Bellamy sets up the laptop and she scrambles up onto his bed. It’s cramped and she’s aware of the proximity but she’s too drunk to feel self conscious even after he switches off the lights.

“Can we build a fort?” Clarke says when the documentary starts up.

“I don’t have enough pillows,” Bellamy says, amused.

“Fine, let’s just-” She struggles with his blanket until he relents and helps to pull it up over their heads.

“This is good,” Clarke giggles. She can barely see his face, illuminated by the laptop screen, but she thinks she sees a smile.

They switch to cartoons after five minutes because Clarke’s bored and Bellamy has seen the documentary four times already. Turns out Bellamy has all the existing seasons of Pokemon on his laptop (“If you tell anyone about this, I swear to god, Griffin”) and Clarke gets very invested in the storyline.

“How did I not know about this,” She slurs when the opening credits for season 4 plays, “This, is amazing. The concept. The art. The characters. Oh my god, Bellamy. The characters.”

“All 649 of them,” He says mock gravely and she dissolves into laughter, pillowing her head on his chest.

She’s really into the show, so she doesn’t remember, not only until she’s falling asleep- Bellamy’s soft snores and warmth lulling her- that she didn’t text Raven to tell her where she is.

 _Shit,_ she thinks, _shit-_

__________________________________

She wakes up slowly, disorientated, lashes stuck together from mascara and drool crusted on her face.

The first thing she sees is Octavia. Then Raven. _Oh god_ , she thinks. _It’s a mirage._

“Clarke. Griffin.” Raven says through gritted teeth, “Do you have any idea how worried we have been?”

Bellamy stirs from under her, an adorably puzzled noise escaping, “O? What the fuck-”

“No, Bell,” Octavia says mockingly, “What the fuck are you doing with my friend?”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispers, voice sore from all the dramatics from the night before, “I left my purse at dinner, and then I bumped into Bellamy and things escalated-”

“I thought you were dead in a ditch,” Octavia cuts in, furious, “Not fucking around with my brother.”

“That’s not what happened-”

“Jesus, O. She was upset. We watched movies and got drunk, okay?”

Her face softens a fraction, though Raven is still staring him down, as if she’s going to bust out a tire iron and whoop his ass. (Clarke doesn’t doubt that Raven will in fact go after anyone who pisses her off with a tire iron. Raven is a potential lawsuit waiting to happen.)

“You could have texted,” Octavia says, stomping her foot.

“It didn’t cross my mind, okay?” He says wearily, running a hand over his face, “Should have thought about it.”

“So much for being responsible,” She mutters, poking out her tongue at him, “Go shower. God, you smell.” Bellamy sighs, lifting Clarke gently by her shoulders before shuffling off. She’s tempted to call after him, thank him, something, but she’s pretty sure her friends are pissed enough as it is. Better not risk it.

“Alright, come here you trainwreck.” Raven says, yanking her up by her armpits. “Your mom came by, dropped off all your stuff. I’m bringing you back to your room for some rest.”

“I’m sorry I made you guys worry. Were you guys looking for me for a long time?”

“We organised a freaking search party,” Raven grouches, “Searched every part of the campus for you and Wells drove out to look along the highway.”

“Shit, I am so-”

“Enough,” Octavia says, clamping a hand over her mouth, “Damage is done. At least you’re safe.”

“But how did you figure it out?”

Octavia sighs. “We didn’t. I was looking for Bellamy so he could help out too. He wasn’t answering my calls and he gave me a key. Fuck, Clarke. I’m trying not to be mad at you here, but we were so worried. Don’t you ever pull that shit again.”

“Damn straight,” Raven mutters.

Clarke clears her throat, wincing at how raw it feels.

  
“Now’s probably a good time to tell you that I ripped your skirt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't follow a lot of the 100 blogs and am looking to flood my dashboard with the 100 to tide me through the hiatus, so follow [me](http://okteivia-blakes.tumblr.com/) and I'll follow back!


	4. Hypothetical Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels a lot like a long, rambly in between chapter before the next plot point and I apologise for that! Thanks for sticking around guys.

Clarke comes to the conclusion that it’s impossible to _not_ get close to the person whom you watched 10 seasons of Pokémon with. It’s just one of those things. A bonding experience, she reasons, as she finds herself trudging down the familiar path to Bellamy’s dorm room.

There’s the whole crying, getting drunk and falling asleep together part but she can’t bring that up without Octavia getting all mad and huffy so she’s not even going to think about it. It’s been two months and she still brings it up sometimes to antagonize Clarke.

He’s slumped over on his bed when she comes in, long legs dangling over the edge, headphones clamped over his ears. She recognizes the faint notes of some classical piano piece playing and god, she thinks grimly, the situation is a worse than she feared.

She wrestles the headphones off, ignoring his cries of protest, and pins his arms down so he can’t shove them back on and tune her out.

“Will you stop being such a drama queen?”

“Let go of me, Clarke.”

“It’s not like she didn’t tell you _eventually._ ”

“He’s too old for her!” He snaps, wriggling out of her grip, “Seven years, Clarke. He was _legal_ when she was a high schooler.”

She sighs, pokes at the hole in his sock, “He really likes her. Can’t you just give it a chance?”

“No,” Bellamy says stubbornly, “She lied to my face for months, Clarke. I’m not going to give her relationship my stamp of approval just because she’s giving me the cold shoulder.”

“Fine,” She mutters, flopping down on to the bed next to him, “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

She stares up at his ceiling fan, Bellamy’s latest fixture after the dorm’s air-conditioning broke down for two long weeks. He picked it out from IKEA and let her paint it after one of their project meetings. (He didn’t even flinch when she presented him with a bright purple ceiling fan. Just said, “I’m going to need a ladder to get it fixed up. Follow me to home depot?”)

And that’s how it’s been for the last two months- Bellamy and Clarke hanging out, _alone_ , without the guise of sociology or studying- just running errands together and eating at drive-throughs. It’s nice. But also weird, because she’s never asked him to hang out with her other friends (including his sister) and he’s never introduced her to his friends either. (She doesn’t know what to make of it, but she’s not going to stress about it either.)

She’s not sure if her friends know that they’re hanging out. Probably not.

“You want to do something tonight?” He asks.

She rolls over to face him, pressing her face into the edge of his dented pillow, “I have a real craving for sushi.”

He makes a small, contented sound, “I know a place.”

“I also don’t really want to leave your room.”

“They deliver.”

She stretches out her foot to bump against his, wiggles her toes, “Awesome. Did I tell you that I’m looking for a job?”

“No,” He says, “What for?”

“I have a strong suspicion that my mother might cut me off. Just a gut feeling, but it’s probably better to be prepared.”

“You could work at Grounders.”

She snorts, “I’m not sure if college students hyped up on caffeine is my thing.”

“I’m serious,” Bellamy argues, “The pay is good, it’s on campus.” He pauses, “We’ll get to hang out in between shifts.”

She arches her brow, gasps dramatically, “Bellamy Blake, are you saying you like hanging out with me?”

“Shut up,” He grumbles when she bursts into giggles, knocking her elbow with his, “I was being serious.”

“I’ll think about it,” She says and that seems to appease him.

They place their orders for sushi and Bellamy insists that they watch _Jiro Dreams Of Sushi,_ for like, atmosphere, but it mostly just means that Clarke gets to make fun of Bellamy geeking out over Japanese cuisine. (He makes this moaning noise whenever a particularly good piece of sushi comes on screen and it’s _distracting_ to say the least.)

For someone who really likes Japanese food, Bellamy is pathetic at handling chopsticks, she thinks, watching him spear a piece of tako with the pointy end and transferring it to his mouth as quickly as he can. She can’t even call him out on it because he’ll just suggest she feed him instead and she doesn’t think she needs the humiliation, thanks.

She’s chewing on her tamago when he says, completely out of the blue, “You think we would have become friends if we weren’t assigned partners?”

Clarke’s tempted to crack a joke and laugh it off, but she knows him well enough to decipher that he does, in fact, want a genuine response from her. It’s a pretty tricky question.

“I don’t know,” She says honestly, “Would you have treated me any differently if we met under different circumstances?”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Let’s say we met at a party or something.”

“Nah,” Bellamy says nonchalantly, “I would have hit on you if I met you at a party and you would probably have kicked me in the balls.”

It’s a Bellamy thing to say- disarmingly honest, and she knows he doesn’t mean anything from it- but well. It’s nice to think that he finds her attractive. She forces herself to take a big gulp of water and angles her face away so he doesn’t catch her blushing.

“I wouldn’t have kicked you in the balls,” She blurts suddenly, “I would probably have been, uh, a little charmed.”

She averts her gaze hastily, picking at her frayed jeans so she doesn’t have to look at him when he says, “Well thank god it went the other way.”

She stabs at her piece of sushi, stung, “Yeah, thank god you didn’t fuck me at a hypothetical party in a totally hypothetical situation.”

“Hey,” He says abruptly, picking up on her mood, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She casts her chopsticks aside, laying back on the floor so she can look at the fan and not at him, “Enlighten me then.”

“Put it this way,” He says, a little weary, “Like, 20 years down the road, when you’re happily married with like five kids or something-“

Clarke shudders, “My limit is two.”

Bellamy laughs, “Fine, two. Stop interrupting.”

“Duly noted.”

“20 years down the road when you’re happily married with two kids,” He continues, “I’d like to be around to see it. And I just don’t think this would be possible if we hadn’t met the way we did.”

It’s the kind of stupidly sweet thing Bellamy will say, she thinks, blinking back tears, as he goes back to eating his sushi. Drop a fucking friendship bomb on her then go back to eating like it didn’t matter.

She turns over to look at him, hunched over, trying to maneuver a piece of sushi into his mouth. The tips of his ears are a little red, but he appears otherwise unaffected. Clarke should really do the rational thing here and stop being his friend or something, because she’s pretty sure his idiocy is contagious.

She does fill out an application for the barista position at Grounders the next day though. Anya, the manager, interviews her on the spot and gives her the part-timers contract by the end of it, to be returned after summer break.

She signs the contract and shoves a copy of it under Bellamy’s door before heading off to class.

__________________________________

Nathan Miller, the stone-faced, beanie-wearing librarian behind the counter is the bane of her existence. (“ _Just Miller,_ ” He snaps when she calls him Nathan. A right ray of sunshine, that one.)

“For the last time,” Clarke says through gritted teeth, “The book was already damaged when I loaned it.”

He sighs, unperturbed, “Yeah, well, you still have to pay a fine. It’s in your college guide.”

Clarke’s pretty sure her college guide is exactly where she left it- the bottom of her drawer, untouched, still in its sealed packet- but she summons enough indignation to say instead, “I’m pretty sure there’s a section when _wrongfully accused_ students can be let off.”

“What section does this happen to be?” He retorts, and she resists the urge to stick a pen through his eye.

“Fine, how much do I have to pay?” She asks, rifling through her bag for her wallet.

“$50,” He deadpans.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

He shakes his head wearily, “I wish I was.”

“I could live off $50 for two weeks. Couldn’t you just like waive this fee? Feel for a broke college student?”

Miller snorts derisively, “I know who you are, Griffin. I know who your mother is, to be more precise. You’re not even close to broke.”

Clarke is this close to doing something crazy impulsive, like making a run for it or punching him in the nose, when she hears her name being called.

“What’s going on?” Bellamy asks her warily. “Hey,” He says to Miller, surprisingly friendly, and Miller gives him _the nod,_ the one some guys use in lieu of a hello. (What a dick move.)

“Miller here, wants me to pay for damaging a library book.” Clarke snaps, “Even though I didn’t do it.”

He furrows his brow, picks up her bulky _Arts Through The Ages_ text book, “Where’s the damage?”

“Spine’s broken,” Miller says, “Needs to be rebound. Look, I’m just doing my job here.”

“It’s an easy fix,” Bellamy says, “I’ll do it.”

“You can actually do that?” She asks, surprised and he rolls his eyes at her like she’s an idiot, “Yeah I can. The book isn’t due yet right? I’ll rebind it, then you can return it to Miller here. Who’s just doing his job,” He says hastily when Miller shoots him a look, “Alright with the both of you?”

Miller just grunts, which she hazards, is an acceptance for these terms. Shooting him a smug look, she sweeps out of the library, tugging Bellamy along despite his protests.

“Look, I know you want to make your dramatic exit,” He says, exasperated, “But I was in a library for a reason.”

“Oh. Studying?”

He rolls his eyes again, but sits down next to her on the bench anyway, “I have a test next Tuesday.”

“Sorry,” She winces, “You can totally head back now. I’m good here.”

“Well, since I’m already outside,” He mutters, cracking open his textbook. She smiles a little to herself, shoves a loose lock of hair behind her ear. It’s a nice day, a good day for drawing. She sketches a few trees, practices scaling with leaves scattered around the quad.

But eventually her thoughts drift back to Bellamy, and she finds herself sketching him, knees drawn up, hair falling into eyes, fingers tapping the corners of his textbook.

“Are you drawing me?” He asks, his mouth twitching at the sides.

“Maybe,” She says evasively, “Stay still or I’m going to fuck up your nose.”

“I’m going to want to see it you know.”

“Not happening. I don’t let people see my sketches especially when they're not 100% ready to go.”

“Perfectionist,” He snipes, but there’s fondness in his tone. She grins stupidly at him, sticks out her tongue. He goes back to scanning his text and she picks up her pencil again.

“Sorry about Miller,” He says after a while, “He’s not usually such a dick.”

“Close friend of yours?” She asks, and she thinks she sounds pretty casual and breezy, even to her own ears. She gives herself a mental pat on the back.

“We grew up together,” Bellamy says, tapping his pen on his knee, “So we look out for each other.” He smiles wryly, adds, “I don’t have much female friends. He’s probably wondering what are your intentions when it comes to me.”

She splutters, “Me? Seriously?”

He laughs, “Miller’s naturally suspicious. Probably worried you’re going to seduce me and then ruin me or something.”

“I’m don’t think I’m capable of seducing anyone, firstly,” She says hotly, “And he doesn’t even know me, so Nathan Miller can just go _shove it._ ”

“Aww, Clarke, it doesn’t matter,” He says teasingly, “I know you’re not capable of seducing me. I’m a rock.”

She rips up a handful of grass and tosses it at his face. He doesn’t even bother to dodge, just brushes it off his face and goes back to reading, stupid smug smile in place.

Clarke’s on her fourth sketch of him, side profile this time, when she remembers what she wanted to ask him in the first place, “Are you doing anything this weekend? There’s this new café I’ve been meaning to check out.”

He looks up, surprise registering on his face, “It’s the start of summer break. Aren’t you heading home?”

“No,” She says, “Are you?”

“Yeah,” He says, “I thought Octavia told you.”

“She’s been busy with Lincoln lately, I haven’t seen much of her.”

“That’s surprising,” He mutters. “So you’re just planning on staying on campus?”

It’s not like she has any place to go, she thinks. Raven’s off for some camp for engineering geniuses like her, Wells is going home to see his mom and Monty is spending his summer with his best friend Jasper. It feels weird to crash either one of their plans and three months of being a tag-a-long doesn’t sit well with her either.

“I guess,” Clarke manages, “I could always catch up on my reading. Get an early start on my training at Grounders.”

“No way,” Bellamy says firmly, “Just come with us.”

She scoffs, “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m serious,” He stresses, “Octavia won’t mind. Miller’s visiting his parents but we’re just heading back to check on the house and see a few of our old friends. Won’t be like you’re intruding or anything.”

She stares at him, his face open and earnest and a little hopeful. Three whole months together, _with Octavia,_ her mind hastens to add. Summer with the Blakes, she thinks to herself wryly, and even though it sounds a whole lot more exciting than summer on campus, she knows she’s not going to jump right into it unless everyone is on board.

“Let’s check with Octavia first.” She says. It’s not a _no_ , not by a long shot, and Bellamy gives her a shit-eating grin, can feel his satisfaction radiating off him in waves. (She knows he’s pretty much won this one.)

“Octavia first.”


	5. Summer (The First Month)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively, this chapter should be titled 'Clarke is thirsty af'

Clarke had assumed that the most important thing about her Summer With The Blakes™(patent pending) was packing enough sunscreen for all four of them.

She did not, however, take into account the four hour drive in Bellamy’s crappy van.

“That’s why this is so important,” Octavia insisted, jabbing furiously at her keyboard, “If all four of us are going to be stuck in a small space together for four hours, we need good music to get us through. Or Miller might just kill us all.”

“Okay,” Clarke says slowly, “How does this concern me again, actually?”

Octavia has the nerve to look at her like she’s crazy. “Clarke, you need to contribute to this playlist. Give me some input here. Bellamy’s already added some of his stuff to it.”

She does take a look at the playlist just to shut Octavia up, and it’s a hot mess. There’s no other word for it. There’s no running theme or anything that remotely suggests a summer mix, just a bunch of obnoxious pop songs (Octavia’s doing, most likely) and Bellamy’s classic rock jams.

It’s going to be a long four hours, Clarke thinks grimly, as she adds her choice tracks and burns the disc. Miller is without a doubt, going to murder them.

She’s throwing her suitcase and duffel bag into the backseat when she hears the strangled noise Bellamy’s making.

“All that?” He says, aghast, “For three months? Did you decide to move in and not tell me?”

“This is perfectly adequate number of luggage,” She scowls, “It’s not going to take up much room.”

“Sure it’s not,” He mutters, “Can you drive stick?”

“No,” She says, a little too quickly, and he must remember- _her dad, it was dark, there were headlights, wild and flickering, and then the world exploded and everything was red_ \- because his body slackens and he reaches out to grasp her elbow gently, pulling her close.

She squeaks in surprise when she feels his arms wrap around her, but relaxes when she realises what’s happening. He’s a lot broader than her, taller too, so she settles on burying her face by his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” He says, “The rest of us can take turns.”

“Don’t tell Miller I don’t have my license.” She mumbles.

He hums softly, “I won’t. And if Miller says something stupid to you later, I’ll hit him.”

“I believe you.” She says, and closes her eyes when he threads his fingers through her hair, resting his chin on the top of her head. She exhales against his collarbone, nuzzling her nose against it slightly and she feels him shiver, gasping a little when her lips brush against the hollow of his neck.

This is foreign, she thinks, different and a little alien. She thought she knew Bellamy like the back of her hand- she knew what made him laugh and his favourite colour was green and he hated pickles- but she never knew, until this moment, how hot his skin would feel against hers, how many freckles he had scattered along his jaw.

How would he react if she ran her fingers down the divots of his spine, if she turned her head slightly to brush a kiss on the side of his neck? A part of her ached to know, wanted to catalogue his reactions to her touch-

Then she hears a small cough and they spring apart, Bellamy nearly tripping over his shoelaces, Clarke grabbing onto his forearm so he wouldn’t fall face first on to the ground.

“Who’s driving first?” Miller says briskly, adding his bags to the heap.

“I can take the first shift,” Bellamy says gruffly, “You can take over when I get tired.”

They launch into rapid-fire discussion on the fastest routes to take and Clarke seizes the chance to claim her seat, her face still burning from the intrusion. She’s not sure what she’s embarrassed about, really, they were just _hugging._

(It didn’t feel like _just a hug_ , a part of her whispers, but she pointedly ignores it.)

Octavia slides in next to her, complaining about the humidity and the van’s crappy air-conditioning and Bellamy’s yelling about how much luggage Octavia brought and it all feels normal again. She exhales, relieved, and presses her face against the cool window as the siblings proceed to bicker about Lincoln.

The fight peters out eventually and Octavia force feeds Clarke some peanuts and a sugared doughnut to ‘keep her energy up.’ Honestly, she thinks Octavia is just disappointed that Clarke isn’t exuding road trip vibes and singing along with all the songs.

She falls asleep somewhere along the highway, lulled by Octavia’s chatter and when she wakes up, it’s dark outside. Miller’s at the wheel now and Bellamy is fiddling with the volume button, lowering the music. Judging by how quiet it is, Clarke assumes that Octavia has fallen asleep as well.

“We should stop for dinner at the next place we see,” Bellamy says, “Octavia’s going to be cranky when she gets up unless she gets some food.”

Miller snorts, “I know. Remember the road trip we took in high school? I thought she was going to bite my head off when I suggested we keep going.”

Bellamy chuckles, “Those were good times.”

They’re quiet again, and Clarke finds herself nodding off, the dull roar of the truck’s engine soothing her when Miller says, “I think you should be careful.”

“About what?” Bellamy says edgily, and Clarke knows this is coming, expected it really. It feels like she’s been dangling off the precipice of a cliff, waiting for the shoe to drop, and now it finally has.

“This thing you have going on with Griffin.”

“You mean friendship?” He says sarcastically.

“I don’t think the way you feel about her is platonic in any way,” Miller says quietly and Clarke holds her breath, her fingers trembling in time with the vibrations of the truck.

She waits for his answer, his denial but it never does arrive. Miller pulls into the parking lot of a Applebee’s, Bellamy’s switched on the interior lights and they’re hustling for dinner before making the final stretch back home.

They arrive around midnight, bleary and sweaty, the van smelling like exhaust and burnt french fries.

Miller lives two streets down, and he heads off first, suitcase trundling loudly against gravel. The Blake’s family house is modest, a little shabby, with peeling paint and a broken mailbox. Octavia coos at a fat cat perched on the porch, insists that it is, in fact theirs, despite Bellamy’s vehement protests.

“It’s just some stray that always wanders here,” He says grudgingly, heaving her suitcase up the rickety stairs, “But Octavia thinks it _wants_ to be ours.”

Clarke’s staying in their attic- despite Octavia insisting that she just share with Bellamy, who sleeps in the master bedroom and apparently has a sizable bed- and despite its mustiness, she likes it.

She likes the sloped ceilings, the yellowing lace curtains, the potted plants lined up nearly by the window. It’s kitschy and homey, something she had never been able to achieve with her room back home because of Abby’s chronic neat freak tendencies.

She’s deliberating between a shower or unpacking when Bellamy ducks his head in, hair wet, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, yawning lazily. Clarke tries not to stare at the sharp vee of his hipbones, exposed by his shirt riding up when he talks. It’s difficult to tear her eyes away and she’s not really conscious of the fact that she’s staring until he says, “Clarke?”, all confused, and she snaps out of it.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I asked if everything was alright. Like,” He gestures wildly around the attic, “Settled in okay?”

“Yeah,” She says, pushing the limp strands of hair off her neck, “I’m good. I was just getting ready for bed.”

“Okay,” He says, “If you want to shower it’s the second door to the right.”

“Got it,” She says, trying not to let her thoughts drift back to those hipbones, “Goodnight.”

“Night, Clarke.”

She takes a very cold shower and concludes that she really, really hates Bellamy’s sweatpants.

__________________________________

The first two weeks of her great summer adventure is spent lazing around the lawn with Octavia.

Clarke’s suggestion that they get jobs to pass the time is shot down immediately, with Octavia insisting that the first few weeks of vacation are spent having fun, not working. Octavia’s definition of fun is basically tanning and skyping Lincoln, so Clarke’s really not all that psyched about it.

The worst part about it all is Bellamy. He got a job at a ice cream parlour on the third day of vacation and he always comes home in the evenings with his hair all mussed, ridiculous pastel uniform on and it’s not fair that he looks good in it but he does.

Other than the uniform, he spends half his time parading around shirtless, drinking coffee or mowing the lawn and it has come to the point that Clarke turns and heads the other way when she sees his shirtless torso approaching.

(Clarke does _not_ get hot and bothered by this. It’s just that he distracts her from her summer reading, _okay?_ And she’s weirdly invested in this novel and she needs to finish it.)

On her third week, she decides to head into town and go for the first job she sees. It’s a pretty small town, quiet too, with most of the shops closing by 6. She can’t really picture the Blakes growing up here, nor Miller, but maybe they were different back then.

“Clarke!”

“Hey,” She calls back weakly, oh god, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, “How are you doing?”

“Fine. How is it I feel like I’m seeing you less now?”

She shrugs but ducks into the parlour so as not to appear rude. It’s empty and the air conditioning is fan-fucking-tastic. Clarke leans up against the glass case, pressing her overheated flesh against it. Jesus.

“Don’t laugh at me,” She mutters, “It’s way too hot out there. I wish I could walk around naked.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” Bellamy says, amusement evident in his tone, “What are you doing in town anyway? I thought your great summer plan was to tan and read.”

“It was my great summer plan,” She says, “Then I realised my great summer plan sucked. I’m so bored.”

He laughs, “You could visit me at work more. I feel like I hardly see you.”

“We’re staying in the same house.”

“Are we?” He says, gasping dramatically, “Because we never hang out anymore.” There’s a touch of reproach in his voice and Clarke instantly feels guilty. It’s not his fault she’s kind of stupidly attracted to him.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted. We’ll hang out more soon, I promise.”

He rolls his eyes at her playfully, adjusting the visor he’s required to wear, “Want a free scoop? The chocolate fudge here is pretty good.”

“I’ll take a job here if you can spare it.”

“I don’t think they’re hiring anymore,” He says absentmindedly, and she gapes at the movement of his biceps as he scoops up a chunk of ice cream, “But I think they’re looking for people next door.”

Her mouth feels oddly dry. That was _something._

“What?” She asks as he presents her with her ice cream.

He frowns, “I said, they’re looking for people next door. Are you okay?”

“It’s too hot out,” She stutters, and before she can do anything stupid, like drool, she grabs her ice cream and makes a run for it.

Next door turns out to be a juice bar and she’s hired on the spot. Pros: she’s earning some cash in an air-conditioned environment. Cons: The uniform is hideous. And from where she stands behind the corner, she can see Bellamy. Like almost constantly. She sneaks a peek while her manager goes through the menu. He’s tapping away at his phone screen intently. Probably yelling at Octavia for keeping the sprinklers on all day.

Bellamy’s locking up the parlour once she’s done with her training, so she falls into step with him and they walk back together, trading stories lazily. She’s missed this, missed _him,_ she realises, and she feels a rush of fondness for him- her sociology partner, her friend, her best fucking friend.

He’s telling her about this crazy customer he had, his voice strained from excitement, hands waving wildly in the air. And this was one of her favourite sides of Bellamy, the excited Bellamy who spoke with his entire body, whose laughs came easy and drifted lazily out in the air.

But this is more than that, she realises. She used to think that there were different sides to him, different versions with some she preferred over the others. But this wasn’t true, was it? This is it. This is who he is. Sometimes grumpy, more often than not sarcastic, but also caring and protective and charming. A complex, multi-faceted individual and she sees him, she sees him for who he is. She sees him and she thinks she might love him.

Clarke used to think that love was all about sweeping declarations, about being swept out by the current, pulled under- sudden, all consuming, be end, end all. Teenage angst and dramatics and wanting. But this is different. She loves him and it feels inevitable.

She knew what her friends used to say about their relationships. They compared their teenage loves to infernos and blazing comets and lightning bolts and Clarke used to listen, enraptured, waiting for this great, epic love to find her.

But infernos die, comets disappear and lightning is only a brief flash in the sky. Fleeting and bittersweet. Clarke had that with Finn, with Lexa, and she’s had enough with temporary.

This was different. It was vast but steady, unshakeable. It was the peaceful churning of waves, the gentle breeze through the trees. It was not screaming from the rooftops, not heartfelt declarations in the rain. It was a gentle sigh, a slow realization. _I love him._

“Are you even listening to me?” He chides, jostling her elbow.

She should probably tell him. At some point. Or not.

“Hanging on to every word,” She promises.


	6. Summer (The Second Month)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, first I want to thank everyone who voted for me for the bellarke fanfiction awards! I don't even know how it happened but I'm really grateful for everyone's support. Another big thank you guys for sticking with me on this fic, all I can say is that THE END IS NEAR.

There are 35 shades of yellow that Clarke knows of, but she’s pretty sure her work uniform is the 36th shade that she never knew existed: neon puke yellow. Fluorescent yet sickly looking, to be paired with a matching hat that had _checks_ on it. She deliberates if the humiliation is worth the money- then remembers her disastrous dinner with Abby- and yes, yes it is.

It’s a really, really bad uniform though. Puke yellow polo tee and hat aside, there’s also the pair of shorts with a freaking _flap_ over it. Bellamy keeps insisting that she’s wearing it the wrong way around, (“The _flap_ is meant to be facing the back, Clarke. It’s for ventilation purposes.”) but Clarke’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be one of those shorts disguised as a skirt things that people in country clubs are fond of wearing.

The heatwave keeps most people indoors so the juice bar is desolate almost all the time. Clarke keeps busy by playing _plants v.s zombies,_ reading, or sometimes sketching the fruits behind the counter. The oscillating fan. Bellamy.

She’s taken to chewing on ice cubes and looking through her sketchbook, trying to pick standout pieces for her portfolio and it’s embarrassing how much Bellamy is in there. There’s a lot of sketches of her other friends of course, but Bellamy takes up 70% of her sketchbook and feelings aside, it’s mostly because he makes a good subject.

He’s in constant motion, always fidgeting or twirling a pen between his long fingers, so in her sketches his hands are always a blur, a mess of smudged ink and dark outlines. His hair is always a challenge but she gets it right most of the time. She tries to capture the texture, the unruliness, her lines chaotic and unbridled. Clarke keeps the rest of her lines clean- his features are sharp, angular, defined- she thinks that’s probably what makes her sketches of him stand out, the contrast.

She’s outlining one of her favourite sketches of him- Bellamy mowing the lawn, toothbrush in mouth- when he ducks in.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, sliding her sketchbook off the table discreetly.

“My shift ended early so I thought I could just wait with you until you’re done with yours.” He’s scanning the menu board now, written in chalk by Clarke herself, “What’s actually good here?”

“It’s juice, Bellamy. They’re all good.” She says, “You should probably get the strawberry banana one though. That’s my favourite.”

He narrows her eyes at her, “I’m not falling for that, Griffin.”

“What?”

“Every time I order one of your favourites you just end up eating it yourself.”

She scoffs, “You’re making that up.”

“Peanut butter crepes, oreo milkshakes, fucking french fries-”

“Fine!” She snaps, slamming down a cup with unnecessary vigour, “Order whatever the hell you like, then!”

He looks taken aback at her outburst, so she mutters an apology and starts slicing up some bananas. It’s not his fault she’s stressing out about her own feelings.

“Is everything okay with us?” He asks, voice quiet and unsure, and she nearly dislocates her arm reaching over the counter to grab him closer, to reassure him that everything is, in fact, fine.

“Of course it is,” She mumbles, “I’m sorry if I’m being weird. It’s the heat, I swear.”

“Clarke,” He says, pulling away, “You’re going to break your arm if you try that again.”

“You could always come behind the counter.”

“Will your boss be okay with that?”

“I don’t really care.” She says, lifting the barrier to let him cross. The space is cramped and uncomfortable, with Bellamy taking up almost the entire space. She has to pull her elbows in when she’s slicing the strawberries and even then she can feel his breath against her neck. Bad, bad idea, Clarke.

He’s oddly quiet, and Clarke is unnerved by the silence more than anything else. It’s not like Bellamy to just _hover_ so she just starts babbling.

“Another empty milk carton in the fridge-”

“Did I do something wrong?” He says suddenly, all serious, “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me almost all summer. If it is, just tell me, Clarke. You hardly talking to me is kind of driving me crazy here.”

“You didn’t do anything!” She yells, dumping the fruits into the blender, “Would you stop blaming yourself? This is on me, okay?”

“What does that even mean?” He says frustratedly, “I thought we told each other everything here. I thought we’re _friends_.”

“Maybe that’s the problem!” Clarke shrieks, and there’s this awful, awful silence. She’s afraid to look at him, to see the hurt clear on his face, so she stares at the ground instead. The linoleum tiles are scuffed and Bellamy’s laces are crusted with dirt and grass. They all blur before her.

Then his fingers are tilting her chin up gently and he’s just looking at her, looking at her in the way that makes her breath catch, and the silence now feels charged, electric but also tenuous-

Then the blender goes off, juices spilling all over the counter, splattering onto their clothes and she scrambles to put the lid back on. Bellamy is yelling over the noise, something about turning it off-

The lid is too slippery in her grip so she settles for yanking the power cord instead, the frayed wires sending out threatening sparks. She yelps and throws it to the ground, backing up into Bellamy’s chest.

He has his arm around her and he’s staring at the blender in mute horror, as if a beloved pet had just attacked them viciously. That alone is enough to set her off into giggles, coupled with the fact that he has what looks like a regurgitated strawberry in his hair.

“So, that just happened.” He says and she’s laughing again, hysterical giggles that she tries to muffle into his stained uniform. He makes an exasperated noise, but she sees the smile on his lips when she pulls away.

“Listen,” Clarke says, tugging on his shirt, “I swear I’m not mad at you. I’m just trying to work through something here, okay?”

He stares at her, all thoughtful but long enough to make her squirm, before he says simply, “Okay.” Then he picks a chunk of frozen banana out of her hair and asks her where they keep their mops.

__________________________________

Raven calls her the very next day. It’s crackly on her end, and there are moments when her voice dips out completely and all Clarke can hear is static. But she gets the message loud and clear: Raven’s dating someone. It’s serious, and no, she has no idea how it happened.

Clarke’s happy for her- of course she is- but there’s that ache, a kind that she can’t really explain. Raven’s not going to need her as much anymore, she has Wick. Best friends always say that nothing will change, but they do, they do, they do. It’s inexorable.

“What about you?” Raven asks, “Any summer romances?”

“No,” She says absentmindedly, glancing over at Bellamy through the glass. He’s sorting out sugar packets, his face relaxed and open, and she finally thinks to ask, “Be honest with me here. Have I been distant with you lately?”

“A little, yeah,” Raven says without preamble, “But I was thinking it was because of O’s brother.”

The phone slips from her sweaty palm, nearly clattering into the half-full blender, and Clarke briefly allows herself to wonder if this is how a heart attack feels like, “You knew?”

“That you have a huge feeling boner for him? Yeah, I did. I notice these things, Clarke.”

“I’m sorry,” She says automatically, because she’s not sure what else is there to say, really, “That I’ve been distant. And that I didn’t tell you about, you know. Bellamy.”

“I’m not mad,” Raven says, “I know you’re not good at feelings and whatever.”

And just when she thinks that Raven hung up on her, she says, “Is it serious?”

She considers denial at first, but then she sees him through the glass, his face relaxed and open as he sorts through sugar packets and the words die in her throat.

“Yeah,” She croaks instead, turning her face away, “He’s my best friend too. Other than you, I mean. I think I might be a little bit in love with him.”

“Good for you,” She says and Clarke can hear the conviction in her voice, and it makes her profoundly grateful that Raven Reyes is in her life, “Though it appears that now I have to battle it out for my position of _best_ best friend. It’s decided. Bellamy’s my nemesis. Wait, is Wells in the running too? Damn it.”

“I love all of you equally,” She says, “But no, I consider Wells to be more like an annoying, lovable brother. So yeah. I guess he’s not in the running, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You can’t see me but I just pumped my fist.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t there to see it,” She says dryly, and Raven laughs, the sound familiar and comforting. “But seriously, I’m glad that you’re dating someone you like. Good for you, Rae.”

“I guess,” She says, “Look, I have to go, but here’s my take on this, Griffin: grow a pair and tell him how you feel because pining doesn’t look good on you.”

The phone feels slippery in her hands again, and she has to rest it against her shoulder as she wipes them on her bottoms, “And if that fucks up our friendship?”

“That’s just a risk you’re going to have to take.” She hears someone calling for Raven in the background, the staticky noise intensifying, before Raven barks out a, “Call me later!” and hangs up.

Clarke is slated to close up today- but after her manager calls her about mixing up some of the other part-timers shifts- she hands over her apron to a gangly teenager and changes back to her tank and cutoffs. It’s the first time in a few weeks that she’s had a free afternoon and she contemplates sketching or maybe hitting the beach. Or she could just spend the entire time worrying about the Bellamy situation, you know, whatever came first.

“I thought you were closing up today,” Bellamy says, confused, when she collapses into one of the booths right by the air conditioner.

“Some mix up with scheduling,” She remarks, staring down at the laminated menu, “Do you actually know how to make all these sundaes?”

“It’s part of my job requirement,” He says, a tad impatiently, “You’re still getting paid for the shift you took, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” He says, satisfied, and goes back to polishing glasses. “You want me to make you a sundae while you wait?”

“I’m actually not,” She says lamely, sliding out of the booth and wincing at the harsh sound of her sweaty thighs scraping against leather, “I was thinking of heading back first. Sketching, maybe? Make use of my afternoon.”

He blinks at her, confused, and she realises that it’s probably the first time she hasn’t agreed to wait up for him. He always waits up for her, sometimes bearing gifts like slushies and burgers and that one glorious time, a snow cone. This feels like a small betrayal, somehow.

“Okay,” He says, ducking his head to wipe at the counter, “I’ll see you back home.”

“See you,” She says, fixing her gaze at the spot directly above his head. She’s pretty sure if she looks at him- that hangdog, defeated expression, sweet and sincere and hurt- she’ll do something stupid like kiss him and effectively ruin her chances forever.

She’s halfway back, flip flops slapping against the concrete, pale skin burning when she spots Octavia in the Miller’s backyard, hair thrown up in a messy bun, feet dangling in the pool. She smiles when she sees the chipped nail polish on Octavia’s toes, submerged in water. Clarke’s good at painting per se, just not at painting nails.

“Hey,” She calls out, and Octavia waves her in lazily.

“Where’s my brother?” She asks, adjusting her sunglasses. Clarke tries for a nonchalant shrug, hoping to come off flippant. Octavia lowers her sunglasses, narrows her eyes at her, “Did you guys have a fight?” and Clarke knows it’s pretty much a lost cause at this point.

“No,” She says acidly, settling in next to her and lowering her feet into the water, “I don’t _have_ to wait up for him all the time, do I?”

“What’s up with you two?” Octavia grumbles, shoving her gently, “Bell’s been mopey and you’ve been all snappy. Did you guys fuck? Is that it?”

“O!” She all but yells, and she can feel her face blazing, “It’s not like that.”

Octavia rolls her eyes, and mercifully, stays quiet. Clarke huffs and lays down on her back, crossing her arms behind her head. Now would probably be a good time to tell Octavia about her feelings, maybe ask her about advice on what to do, but Clarke’s a coward when it comes to crap like this so she just squints at the sky instead.

“I wouldn’t mind you know,” She says quietly, after a beat, “If you guys got together, or anything.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Not at all, you idiot. Have you been waiting for my approval this whole time?”

“It’s not that,” Clarke manages, “I mean, it’s nice to get your approval. But I don’t think Bellamy feels-”

“You’ve got to me shitting me,” Octavia mutters, groaning theatrically, “ _Clarke._ My brother makes moony eyes at you all the time. It’s gross.”

Her eyes feel surprisingly hot, and Clarke’s not even sure why she feels like crying, “He doesn’t look at me at all.” She manages weakly.

“Who are you trying to fool?” Octavia demands, yanking on her arm gently until Clarke pulls herself off the ground, “Clarke. He was all affected and sad when you didn’t want to admit to being friends, did you know that?”

She blinks away the moisture, forces herself to focus, “Wait, what?”

She sighs exaggeratedly, gives her a little shake, “The first time I saw you guys together and you insisted you guys weren’t friends. He was all depressed after that. Like not even grumpy, Clarke. Sad. Know why? He cares about what you think. He cares about _you._ Everyone can tell.”

“Friends care about each other,” Clarke bleats pathetically, and she thinks Octavia might hit her.

“I’ve had it with you two,” She mutters, lifting her feet out of the water, “Just tell my brother how you feel, for god’s sake. And don’t break his fucking heart or I’ll break your face.”

Clarke chokes out a laugh, says, “I’m more afraid of you than I am of your brother, so yeah. Definitely. Not planning on breaking his heart.”

“Good,” Octavia grouses, offering her a hand, “Now get your heads out of your asses and stop ruining my summer with your sadness. Killjoys, the both of you.”

Then she drags her home, forces her to sit on the porch and makes her feed the cat scraps of their pizza dinner. (Clarke thinks it’ll kill the cat. Octavia thinks she’s being an idiot) It’s oddly peaceful. Octavia repaints her toenails, convinces Clarke that melted ice cream over microwave brownies makes a better dessert than popsicles.

Every time she considers chickening out and hiding in her room, Octavia drags her back with some convoluted excuse- the cat’s choking, there’s something weird hiding in the bushes- and even though she pretends to grumble every time, she is appreciate of Octavia’s intuitiveness. Being around Octavia makes her feel a little more hopeful, a little more brave.

She sees him in the distance, still in his uniform, hair dishevelled and expression wary. They’re normally in the house by the time he gets back- it’s too hot to eat out at the porch, and Octavia’s always complaining about mosquitos- and Clarke can feel her hands trembling by her sides.

“Good luck,” Octavia whispers, squeezing her sweaty palm, and ducks back into the house.

“Hi,” She squeaks when he’s close enough to hear her, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

“To where?” He asks, suspicious.

“Around,” She mumbles, waving vaguely in the direction of Miller’s house, “Let’s go?”

He doesn’t say anything, just trails behind her as she starts walking, unsure of where she’s going either. She’s not really thinking about a specific place really, but eventually they settle down at a empty corner of the beach.

She shoves her feet into the sand, pushes her hair off her sweaty neck. Bellamy’s unbuttoned a few of the buttons of his shirt and his sleeves are pushed up, hair a mess from the wind and from running his fingers through it. She hates that he still looks good when she’s pretty sure she looks like a sweaty, dishevelled mess.

“So I need to pick a few pieces for my portfolio,” Clarke manages, her voice surprisingly steady, “Want to help me pick out a few?”

Bellamy perks up, “You’re letting me look at your sketchbook?”

Not trusting to speak, she nods instead, pulling it out of her bag. He runs a finger down the spine, and she catches him smile to himself before he flips the book open. She suppresses a shiver, forces down the urge to snatch the book away from him. It feels too personal, almost, and she sits on her hands instead, holds her breath when he flips the pages.

He doesn’t just glance at them. He actually looks, leaning in closer to get a good look at certain ones, smiling at the ones of Octavia. He doesn’t linger too long on the sketches of himself, and she wonders if they make him uncomfortable. She swipes at the dampness gathering on her top lip.

“They’re all good,” Bellamy says finally, “I don’t really know which specific ones you should pick, but I think this one of Octavia is really great.”

Her throat feels raw, dry. Are her lips chapped? She licks them nervously, “I like it but it’s not my favourite.” She flips to the back of the sketchbook, taps her finger against the one of him, “This one is.”

He cracks a smile, “I don’t even know when you drew this.”

“Is it weird?” She blurts, “Like an invasion of privacy thing? Because I can stop.”

“It’s fine.” He says, soft. She sneaks a peek at him and he’s looking right at her. She ducks her head back down, runs her fingers over the sketch, smudging it a little.

“So you should probably know why I’ve been acting so weird,” She says finally, and she thinks Raven and Octavia would have been proud. _Gutsy,_ Raven says approvingly in her head, and it gives her the courage to power through.

“You’re my best friend, I just think you should know that first.” Her voice is faltering, a little, so she takes a deep breath and composes herself. He’s just looking at her, his mouth set in a tense line, and she thinks that’s what scares her most, the non-reaction to it all.

“It’s not just platonic,” She says haltingly, “The way I feel about you, that is. It’s been driving me crazy, this whole, figuring it out thing and you should probably say something now because I’m freaking out-”

“Don’t freak out!” He yelps, and he looks distinctly ruffled now, embarrassed almost and Clarke _wants to die_ , “What you just said, I agree,” He’s stumbling over the words, his fingers wrung together tightly, and that’s when she notices the faint blush on his cheeks, and she realises that Bellamy Blake’s _nervous._

She has to make an concentrated effort not to burst into laughter there, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m in total agreement with you,” He stutters, before dropping his head and groaning, “Am I fucking this up? Do you-”

“Bellamy,” She says, and she’s grinning like an idiot now, “I think I should probably kiss you now to save you from further humiliation.”

“Thank god.” He mutters and she crashes her lips down on his. She doesn’t know what she was expecting- not this, certainly- he’s gentle with her, almost too careful, his hands a heavy weight against her waist, and she sighs into his mouth, pulling away. He looks dazed, as if she had struck him on the head with a baseball bat. The sight of it makes her smile stupidly against his cheek.

“Are you sure you’re into me?” She says jokingly, “Because if you’re not, I would rather you tell me now-”

His hands dive into her hair instead, pulling her back, and finally, finally he’s kissing her like how she wanted him to. He tastes like salt and mint and his stubble is scratchy under her fingers. She squeaks into his mouth when he pulls her onto his lap, and he laughs, his chest shaking under her. She smacks him lightly, rests her chin against his shoulder. She feels giddy with the knowledge that he wants this too, wants her back, and it’s possibly one of the best days of her life.

“Trust me, I’m really, really into you,” He says, his hand resting on the small of her back. She takes his other hand, strokes her thumb over the small scar on his wrist, “So we’re on the same page here?”

She feels his smile rather than sees it, “I’m thinking that I should probably start referring to you as my girlfriend now instead of just my friend, but please, correct me if I’m wrong.”

She kisses his jaw, the small dimple she always wanted to press her fingers against, “Sounds good to me, Blake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big shoutout to [tigerreyes](http://tigerreyes.tumblr.com/) for letting me take creative liberties with her work uniform and also [hooksandheroics](http://hooksandheroics.tumblr.com/) for encouraging me to just post this damn chapter already. Stay golden! x


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnndddd we're here! The big ending. Thanks so much for reading, you guys, it has been a pretty awesome ride. Sorry if you guys were expecting a full length chapter, this is more a short epilogue to wrap up the fic nicely.

There was a lot of things she knew about Bellamy before, and there are a lot of things she knows about Bellamy now.

She loves him the most in the mornings, when he’s groggy and incoherent, his hair a tangled mess, his fingers running up her sides, sometimes to tickle, sometimes to tease. More often than not, he’ll bury his nose into her shoulder, sniffing pitifully, moaning “I hate having sinusitis,” while she tries to swat him away, because it’s too early and she loves him, but no, she’s not dealing with his snot.

It’s a little pathetic how much she likes waking up to him though, to pepper kisses against his jaw until he wakes up, to snuggle into the warmth of his chest until she hears Octavia calling for them.

He knows how to make her coffee just the way she likes it, and he always, always uses her favourite mug, the chipped blue one that says _might be vodka_ in block letters. She makes waffles for him, throws in crushed oreos when she’s trying to be fancy, and look, Clarke knows that they aren’t exactly _quality_ waffles or anything (she’s pretty sure there were eggshells in the batter) but Bellamy still eats everything anyway.

She learns the temperature of his skin, knows what makes his hips buck against hers, traces every scar with her lips. And after, with her head pillowed against his chest and his hand resting on her lower back, he tells her he loves her, steady and calm, like everything he does, and she thinks she falls in love with him even more.

He smelled like sunblock and aloe vera in the summer, his skin bronzed and freckled from days at the beach and hosting backyard barbeques. Tanning had always been a sore point with Clarke- Bellamy would spend three hours in the sun and emerge gloriously tan, healthy and glowing- and she, well. Clarke didn’t tan. Clarke burned.

She used to worry though, that she would only be able to see _this_ Bellamy, Bellamy in the summer, tanned and relaxed and affectionate. Relationships were often combustible, temporary, and the thought of losing him scared her more than she thought it would. In the early days, especially, it was a niggling worry in the back of her mind, a knife pressed against her spine.

But then came fall, and he held her hand the entire drive back to school, with Miller complaining that he was going to crash the car if he didn’t get his eyes back on the road. She would kiss him in the quad and he would taste like pumpkin spice lattes, sweet and tart, his lips soft and pliable. He liked to rest his hands on her hips behind the counter at Grounders, to guide her hands with his when she swirled whipped cream onto drinks.

Bellamy in fall wore sweatshirts constantly, faded and washed out, the material soft and warm under her cheek. She stole a few that she liked, kept them folded at the bottom of her drawer so she could wear them to sleep on the few nights they couldn’t share a bed. Bellamy in fall wore his socks to bed, his feet warm and toasty, and she loved it when he warmed up her feet with his.

Sociology class together is exponentially more interesting now, and she loves teasing him during class, watching him get all jumpy and tense when she runs her fingers along the seam of his jeans, rubs her foot against his thigh. He would glare at her, the muscle in his jaw ticking, pointedly _not_ looking at her while she tries not to burst into laughter.

“Please stop giving me boners in class,” He says plainly as they settle down to watch _Adventure Time_ together and she nuzzles against his shoulder, “I get a raging hard on every time I enter the classroom and it’s creepy at this point.”

“Get it together, asshole,” She says and he gives her a humongous hickey that is a real bitch to cover up.

He’s downright miserable in winter, always sniffling, nose red from the cold, cheeks flushed. She tries to knit him a scarf, fails miserably, and just buys him one instead. It’s army green and long enough for Bellamy to wind it over the both of them, his cheek pressed up against hers.

He likes burying his face under her sweater, resting his chin on the soft skin of her stomach, effectively distracting her from her studying. She learns that he likes scalp massages, that the spot below his ear makes him especially ticklish, that the freckles on his jaw form a constellation.

They get into snowball fights and sledding competitions, and he likes to win, constantly lobbing snowballs at her when she’s not paying attention, until one time he threw a snowball at her back and it slid down her jeans and into her underwear. Clarke was pretty convinced that she was going to lose an asscheek from hypothermia.

“It’s not my fault your jeans were loose,” He says when she whines about it, his hand rubbing over her ass in soothing circles. (She knows he’s enjoying it more than he should. That bastard.)

He does buy her a coat though, one of those puffy ones that extend all the way to her knees and is basically a walking fashion don’t. “It’ll protect you from getting ice and snow down your pants,” He says triumphantly and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him she hates it, so she wears it throughout winter. (Raven never lets her live it down. Neither does Octavia.)

Bellamy goes back to thin shirts and leather jackets in spring, likes to place his hand in the back pocket of her jeans when they walk down the halls together. He shares his headphones with her on the bus, always offers to untangle the mess that is her laptop wire before marathon study sessions in the library.

She likes watching him work, likes to press her thumb against the crease between his eyebrows when he’s reading, to tangle her fingers through his clumsily when they’re out and about.

He loves running during spring, so she kisses him and tastes Gatorade, and her favourite is when he gets lemon-lime, likes biting into his lower lip and sucking, hearing him moan into her mouth.

She tries to put off the meeting with Abby for as long as she can, but when they do meet, it’s not as bad as she thought it would. It’s tense, at first, but she eases up when they talk about his degree, his plans for the future. Abby does approve of the teaching route, and Clarke’s optimistically hopefully about it all.

She has loved him through the seasons, through the years, and so when it’s summer again, the sun beating down their backs many years after, when he drops to one knee and proposes, she says yes.

 _Full circle,_ she thinks when he fits his mouth over hers, smiling against her lips, _we have come full circle._

“What are you thinking of?” He asks, after, both their backs pressed against the grass, ticklish and itchy between her exposed shoulder blades. They’re both older now, wiser, she hopes too, but when she looks at him she still sees him when he was 18, rumpled and boyish and her best friend. He’s always going to be her best friend.

She’s suddenly reminded of a day, not too long back, her staring at the ceiling, the oscillating fan, his voice, a little embarrassed, sweet.

Clarke laces her fingers between his, tells him, “You stuck around to see it.”

He looks at her, confused, and when he finally gets it, he cradles his face in his hands, kisses her forehead, the edge of her mouth.

“So two kids. That’s next on our agenda, right?” He grins.

“Well,” She breathes into his mouth, tangles her fingers into his hair, “You always made good on your promises, Blake. Get to it.”

(Bellamy, does in fact, keep to his promises. At this point, she’s not even surprised anymore.)

  
**fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you guys don't remember, the day I'm referring to in the end is the one mentioned in chapter 5. Thanks for the support guys and you can always come talk to me on my [tumblr!](http://okteivia-blakes.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Highly dramatic as it is, the 'I got beat up and I'm bleeding too badly you need to grab my stuff for me' situation has actually occurred in my life so. Also considering turning this into a WIP? Tell me what you think!


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